And All My Ghosts Come Back to Me
by tessiete
Summary: Evening. And the Crain children gather to assess the damage. To see if they can fix this.
1. To Proclaim Them Aloud

_"The ghosts swarm._  
 _They speak as one_  
 _person. Each_  
 _loves you. Each_  
 _has left something_  
 _undone."_

 _\- Rae Armantrout_

* * *

The whole way to the hospital, Theo holds his hand.

Luke's in and out of consciousness, seeing things. Seeing light bounce off the insides of his eyelids, watching it sweep across in beams that vanish into darkness. He sees rain. Water droplets dot the windscreen, obscuring the dense forest beyond, fracturing it into tiny pieces, like a miniature house in a snow globe. Hundreds of snow globes. Littered like confetti into little speckles, like pinpricks of blood on his cheeks, on his arms, on the crooks of his fingers.

He doesn't see Nell.

But Theo can feel her. The skin of her palm whispers, dry over the veins of Luke's hand. They stand out, carved from his flesh, but soft, and yielding to the pressure of her touch. And just as she feels the blood pulse beneath her fingers, she feels Nell. Warm. Forgiving. Loving. Everything she hadn't felt in Shirley's basement, she feels flood her now, through Luke.

And under this blanket of love, she feels him, too. Alive. Scared, and slipping away.

She doesn't say anything.

Shirley does, though.

It begins as they pull away from the house. A steady stream of expletives and prayers – it's not her thing, and her pleas sound more like negotiations. Reluctantly afforded compromises.

She gets louder, as she drives herself deeper into anger.

She curses at traffic lights, barks at Theo for the next turn, the next street, the next short cut. Shirley holds back the silence.

Somewhere after Amherst, but before the streets become solid asphalt, snaking out of foggy banks, and pooling yellow streetlights, somewhere around there, she turns her words toward Luke.

"What were you thinking? Why would you do this? Why did you do this, Luke?"

And Theo, holding his hand, skin on skin for the first time in years, says, "He didn't."

"I can't -" Shirley says, "I can't see the road. What's the next street?"

The windshield wipers flick back and forth, beating out a heavy staccato at the corner of her eyes. She swipes at her cheeks, warm and stiff with tears and salt.

"What am I looking for?" she demands.

"It's the next left." Theo says.

And Luke murmurs, "Save me."

* * *

The doctors say it's hours before he'll wake up, and it's hours before Steven, his suit black with rain, and haunted by the grief of hundreds funerals, finally finds them again.

They tell him what the doctors said. He nods when they relate their confusion, their caution, and their hopeful outlook. It's strange, apparently, for such a large dose of strychnine to be so uniformly harmless.

But that was before Shirley corrected them. Before she explained about the prick in his arm, and the inflamed veins, and the blood and foam bursting from his mouth, like a creature, like a parasite, or a carrion beetle, feasting on the liquefying innards of its host. It wasn't harmless.

"He died," she said. The she'd screamed it at them, because it didn't seem like they heard her. "He died! And we had to pound on his fucking chest, and scrape the blood and vomit from his mouth, to keep him from that place."

Still, the doctors said, it was a miracle.

Steven nods. He keeps nodding, taking it in, trying to digest it all. He saw it, too. And after he went back, he'd pushed the door open again, and standing on the threshold, looked again for Luke.

He stares at him now.

"He's okay?"

Shirley nods, and Theo snaps, "He's a fucking cat."

Shirley looks at her, and at her hand, back in gloves, but still gripping his above the cover, and she moves to take a seat on the other side.

Steven follows, and they all look down at Luke.

"Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, as one dead in the bottom of a tomb."

"What's that?"

"Shakespeare," Steven mutters. "Just something mom used to say."

"Mom used to envision us dead?"

"No, I -" Steven hesitates. "What's wrong with his chest?"

He waves his hands over Luke's body. He hasn't touched him yet, not since the house. He doesn't want to feel that horrible, empty stillness beneath him, so he waves his hands over his brother now, as though some complicated incantation is being spilled from his fingertips, and woven into purpose.

"A rib," Theo says. "You broke it, at the house. You or Shirley."

"Oh, God."

"Doesn't matter which. Doesn't matter. You saved him," she says.

They all still. They all hardly breathe, but Luke's chest rises and falls in even swells. One, two, three, four, five, six -

"Did you see -?"

"Nell."

Shirley is so firm in this. Her eyes are glass hard, and all Steven's wishes and dreams, all his ghosts flash over, and are reflected back by her eyes.

"We all did," says Theo.

"We all did," he agrees.

Then Shirley asks, "Where's dad?"

Steven shrugs, and says, "I left him at the house."

The heart monitor punctuates the silence, and so does Theo.

"Punch."


	2. Stay Up and Fight

_"She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust_  
 _Yet raves at her will_  
 _On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears"_

 _\- Dylan Thomas_

* * *

For Luke Crain, who had seen ghosts his whole life, it was inconceivable that his mother never came home. She never rounded that corner. She never stepped out of the car. And he never saw her again. Until that night. Until Nell died.

But something was always calling him back. Back to the house.

Sometimes, it called him promising safety, a return to something sacred and removed. Sometimes it seemed like the inevitable conclusion to a threat only half formed on his lips. Sometimes it vowed to make him disappear. Sometimes, it felt like the only place he could see anything truly at all. But whatever way his motivations warped and writhed to justify it, there was always a voice, always calling to him.

Come back. Come back.

"Luke," a voice said. "Come back."

He tumbles back into consciousness, his breath clawing his way up from his gut, catching in his throat. He tries to curl his arms around himself, but ropes hold them back. A tangle of plastic branches, that tear at his skin, and long, thick trunks that push him down.

"There you are," the voice says, "Come on back."

"I want to go," he says. "Let me go, let me go."

"Okay."

And the pressure on his shoulders lessens. The weight of his struggle calms him, and when he finally opens his eyes, he only sees Theo beside him.

"Where am I?"

"You're safe," she says. "You're at the hospital."

"I didn't -"

"I know."

"I just wanted it all to be over."

Luke lies there, face upturned to the ceiling, pulling air in through his nose, and forcing out at a measured count from his mouth.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven," he says on the exhale. Then, on the inhale. Again.

His hands flex convulsively on the blanket, so Theo takes the left one – it's closest to her – again.

Even when he's done counting, Luke keeps hold of it.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I don't know why I'm like this."

"It's okay," she says, and she speaks to him like one of her kids. Her little brother. "It was just a dream. Just spilling."

"It was so dark," he says. "And I..."

"You were so scared."

At this, his hand spasms, and he laughs. It's hoarse, from the back of his throat, and colored with the bitterness of sick.

"Yeah, well, what's new, huh?"

Theo just looks at him. He's so raw, and open she can feel him through her glove, like someone behind a frosted window. She doesn't let him go, but she does look at him, and say, "It was a very long ride in the dumb waiter."

* * *

The next time he wakes up, it's gentle. Steven's fallen asleep beside him. His forehead bowed over hands steepled in worship atop Luke's own. He tries to shift without waking his brother, but his hand is too numb to gauge the weight of his touch, and Steven sits up, blinking, on his next breath.

"You're awake," he says.

Luke nods.

They stare at each other for a while. Luke's not sure why Steven's here, and Steven hasn't quite stemmed the flood of nightmares that have splashed puddles so deep in his waking life, they make him ache to wade through.

"I'm sorry," Luke says.

And Steven...as frightening as anything Luke's ever seen, Steven sits there, and weeps.

Luke waits for a minute – a long minute – and then he reaches across himself to stroke Steven's head with his free hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I swear, I didn't – I didn't, I didn't mean for you to bury me."

Steven's voice heaves itself up from his chest, and he cries out. Without raising his face to Luke's, he stands, bends over his brother, and gathers him into his arms.

It's awkward. Luke can feel Steven's hands hit dead ends in the twisting folds of his bed sheet, and hospital gown. He recoils as the wool of Steven's sweater snags on the drip flowing into his arm, the pain tugging deep and hollow in his veins. But his brother's determination, and Luke's own liminal state make it fast, and before he's realised it, he's in Steven's embrace, and Steven's rocking him, like a child.

"Don't you dare," he begs, into the crevice of Luke's neck. "Don't apologise. Don't apologise anymore."

"Sorry," Luke says. His skin is warm and wet where Steven speaks, and cries against him.

It's like he's never held him before, not like this, not this desperate, clinging closeness. Not with need. And perhaps, he never has, but he makes no move to pull away, instead drawing Luke closer to his chest, running his hands through his hair, kissing his head, and tucking it beneath his own chin.

His sobs lessen, and Luke rides upon his brother's shaky breaths, as they gradually slow, and steady. He doesn't look at him when he says, "I love you."

Luke doesn't say anything.

And after a few more moments beat out between them, Steven puts him down, adjusting the pillow, and the lines back into a comfortable order.

He clears his throat. Twists his ring around his finger. Luke watches, still on the edge of fear.

"God," he says. "This fucking sucks. I keep seeing...Mom, and Dad, and Nell..."

"What?"

"Luke," he says, not focused on anything. "Luke, Dad's dead."

There's nothing.

"Oh."

"Do you know -" He tries. "Do you remember anything from...from the house?"

Luke opens his mouth but has nothing to say. He shakes his head.

"You died, but you came back," Steven persists. "In the Red Room. We were all in the Red Room, and Nellie – you saw her first. You did see her. Don't you remember anything?"

Everything.

"I can't believe they haven't given you one decent channel on cable," Steven complains, glad for the casual abhorrence of the mundane.

Luke smiles for him. It twists into place, like the sheet in his hands.

"I'm really thirsty. Can I have some water?"

"Sure, pal." Steven jumps for the empty glass, by the bed, and fills it at the sink. "Slowly."

He hands it to Luke, waiting for his stiff, sleepy fingers to wrap around the cool glass. The light shines off the surface of the water, the dying sun sending only tiny flares to shatter into pieces in the ripples of unsteady hands. He holds little sparks. Little, flashing diamonds. A cup full of stars.

"Steven," he says, frightened to continue because even he doesn't believe what must follow. "I think Mom tried to kill me, again."

Steven turns away, with his hands clasped in front of him. He looks out the window, blotting out the light like an ink spot.

"I don't believe it," he hisses. "I don't fucking believe it."

He kicks the chair, and Luke stays silent.

"Is this what Dad was trying to fix? Is this what he was trying to protect us from?" Steve rages. "What a waste. What a God damned, fucking waste!"

There's a small, but piercing click from the door that instantly turns both men to it.

"Is everything okay?" Shirley asks, neither in nor outside the room.

"Everything's great," Steven assures her. He puts his hands on his hips, to hold himself together.

"Do you want to join us in the hall," she ventures. "The doctors want to discuss discharge notes -"

"Yeah," Steve says. "That's – Yeah, I'll be out. Can you just give us a minute. Please?"

"Sure," she says, lightly, but with no ease, and the door shuts again behind her.

Steven's head drops, and Luke tries to escape.

"I didn't – I know it sounds crazy, but I swear, I swear I saw...things. That night – the night we left with Dad – I was back in that room, and mom -" He gapes for a moment, his jaw working but nothing but the soft strangulation of words he can't say comes out.

"I know," Steven says. "I believe you. And I saw it, too. I think I've always seen it, but I...It's easier not to, you know?"

Luke looks at him, and says, "I think it'd be easier if they hadn't seen me first."

Steven nods. He bites his lip, and nods again, and Shirley taps on the door.

"I'm so sorry, Luke," he whispers. The fragile spirit of words more felt than voiced fall thickly between them. "I can't begin to say how much."

And Luke, his reply only a little stronger, says, "It's okay."

Steven moves to the door, this one opening easily under his grasp, just before Luke calls for him again. It's plaintive, and thin, they way children call out for their parents or their siblings in the quiet of night, frightened to break the stillness, more frightened still, not to. So they brave it.

"Stevie," he says. "Were you scared?"

"Yeah," Steven says, turning back. "God, yeah, I was scared. I've never been more scared in my life."


	3. Swallow the Unwholesome Things

_"Out from the House of Ghosts I fled_  
 _Lest I should turn and see_  
 _The child I had been lift her head_  
 _And stare aghast at me!"_

 _\- Margaret Widdemer_

* * *

Theodora is moving out, that much is certain.

"It really makes more sense for Luke to take the house," Shirley insists, though two days ago she was hiding her purse from him. "If Theo doesn't want it -"

"I don't -"

"- Then Luke should just -"

"He can't Shirl," Steven says. "He doesn't want to."

"Why?" She presses. "Why not? I won't be in his business, you know? It won't be like before – we're not like before."

"Shirley -"

"And he's got ninety days, right? So that's the hard part done. How long would they even keep him in rehab if he went back?"

"Maybe -"

"They put him on diazepam, Shirley," Theo says. "It's habit-forming. It could fuck it all up."

"They said that was for the seizures, and that it wasn't a toxic dose."

"I'm just saying -"

"It's a totally different thing! Right, Steven?"

Steven sighs, his eyes listing back toward the closed door of the hospital room behind him.

Luke's on the other side, changing into the clothes that Shirley brought. They were new, she'd said, not because she didn't want to loan him anything, but because Kevin wasn't his size, and Steven hadn't brought anything even for himself, and she'd been out picking up coffee for them all, anyway. The shirt is still too big, he'd thought, as he'd pulled it over his head. Steven noticed. Shirley had been optimistic.

"He's not -" Steven doesn't know how to put it. He's full of the stops and starts he normally erases with a swift backspace in type. "He left treatment, and he – you know, after Nell...this...I think he just wants to go home."

"We're home, Steven," Shirley says. "Family is home."

"I -"

Luke opens the door, and they all stop speaking once the object of their thoughts manifests. Steven's never seen withdrawal. He's never seen rock bottom, but picking up your brother on a street corner, bruised, delirious, and shoeless in October was, he'd thought, pretty close to it. Somehow, Luke looks worse at ninety-five days than he did at ninety.

Except his eyes. Before, they'd been blown wide and dark with highs of terror and drugs. Now, they held a fierce clarity, muzzled only by his gentle nature returned, and the learned hesitancy of shame not so easily lost.

Steven steps forward cup his brother's shoulder.

"Ready to go?"

Luke nods. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah."

"The offer still stands, Luke," Shirley insists. "You're welcome to stay with me. You wouldn't be putting Theo out."

"It's time I got a big girl place, anyway," Theo agrees.

"Look, I...I really appreciate it, Shirl. I do. It's just, I don't want you to feel...beholden, just because of the way things happened, you know?"

"I don't feel beholden," she says, stepping forward to take his hand, pulling him toward her, and the little garden path she's so determined to forge. "I don't."

"I've already taken so much, I couldn't -"

"You're not taking anything from me, Luke, that I could more willingly give."

And Steven thinks, except my life, and hates the idea as much as Luke.

"Thank you," Luke says. "But I just want to go home."

The other side of the country isn't far enough away from the home he's only now feeling might be possible to escape.

Theo asks, pragmatically, "Where are you gonna go?"

"I don't know," he says. "If the treatment centre has a bed open up, I might...I don't know. I've never gotten this far."

Shirley's lip bows to his decree, trembling. The line of her mouth cracks with her voice, as she finally concedes to him. "I'm so, so proud of you," she says. "And I don't want you to be alone."

"I won't be," he promises, and believes it.

Nell always believed in him.

* * *

Two months later, Steven calls.

"It's Leigh," he says. "We're um, we're back together. Things are good."

"Oh," says Luke, a flash of pink between his thumb and forefinger. "That's really great. I'm happy for you, man."

"Yeah, thanks," Steven replies. His voice is still pitched up, and taut, shivering like a spider's web, stirred to its purpose. "Hey, so, um, listen, I was thinking – we were thinking – that you might like to come stay with us."

"Steve -"

"I mean, I know you're not at the centre, anymore, and things have been...you know? It's tough," he continues. "Really tough, to get back on your feet, and the shelter -"

"I want to stand on my own two feet -"

"Right, I know. I get that, and I want that for you, too, but..."

Luke waits, and Steven searches for the roots of his intent.

"I'd really love to see you. I'd really love to be there, this time. It – it would really mean a lot to me, to help...fix – no, I mean..." He doesn't want to be his father. "Okay, you take care of yourself, right? And I just want you to know that I've got a bed for you here, if you want it. Always."

His chip is warm in his hands, and Luke pockets it. Another milestone to share with Steven.

"You know," he begins, clear and smooth as glass, "I'm really getting sick of meatball Mondays. Could you come pick me up?"

Steven stumbles into laughter.

"Yeah," he says. "Of course I can."

Steven and Leigh may be back together, but Luke knows from experience that "good" is an entirely unstable plane of existence. It swings wildly back and forth between a wish realized, and one only just made, or made again and again.

And of course the irony of the whole situation would be funny if Luke didn't feel himself uniquely unsuited to his present circumstances. How could he be the one with plans, and dreams, and hopes that didn't haunt him, scatter him? Scare him.

He's still scared, of course. Life is scary. But storms pass, and he's learned that.

* * *

Between hope, and understanding lie the shattered remnants of trust and unity. Leigh and Steven smile at each other from across the table. There's so much they need to rebuild, and like flipping a house, every time you look behind one wall, there's something else to fix.

At dinner, they're silent. Everyone smiles, and reaches out, and touch each others' hands when they pass the salt, but it's not easy. The air is fraught with fear, but love is there, too, whispering comfort.

One night, Luke finds himself answering it with charming stories of a childhood he thinks might hide some hidden joys. Things he'd almost forgotten. The tent in the backyard. The Christmases that proved Santa's all-knowing existence. The treehouse. The red room, fretted with the golden fire of the sun. Some tiny bits of white magic, and hope that dull, and blur the sharp edges of terror, elbowing it to the corners of his mind. It's all confetti, and he gets to choose which pieces he collects, which pieces he throws away, which pieces fall about them in celebration. He likes the bright ones. Pinks. Then purples. Green, and gold, and red, and silver. How could any memory of Nell as she truly was be dark?

Afterwards, Leigh gives him a kiss on the cheek.

She passes by Steven, plates in one hand, her other trailing delicately over her husband's shoulder. "I'm going to bed," she says.

Steven smiles at her, his eyes uplifted in worship.

"I'll be right up."

Luke takes a deep drink from his water, as Steven lets the wake of Leigh's exit pool and eddy around him. His eyes seem quiet, and his empty wine glass promises contentment, but his smile is carved dubiously into his face.

Eventually, words form, though it's not clear Steven means to say them, or even notices them leave his lips, his expression is so carefully constructed.

"Leigh wants to try again for a baby."

Luke nods.

"Well," he offers, "That's great. Right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steven nods. "It is. It's great..."

The water swirls in the bottom of his glass, clinging to the walls as Luke dizzies it.

Then Steven starts again.

"You know, I thought after that night, I'd be over it," he says.

"Over what?"

"The fear."

"Oh. I think it's more complicated than that."

"Yeah," Steven sighs. "I mean, what if we are all crazy?"

His brow furrows, and Luke regards his brother's terror head on.

"Maybe we are," he allows.

Steven tries to swallow, but his throat is dry, and turned to dust at Luke's lucidity.

"But maybe, Steven," he continues, "Maybe we're not."

Hill House existed before them, after all.

"You seem really great, Luke," says Steven. He looks at Luke now, his eyes earnest.

"Thank you," Luke says.

"Was it – has it been better since Nellie died?" Then he grimaces, wishing for an editor. "That's not what I meant."

"I know," Luke concedes. He pauses, as Steven gathers up his dignity. This is bravery, and Luke allows him a moment to build a few thin, supporting walls. "And in some ways, yes."

There's no wall that could have sheltered Steven from the shock of that admission though, and it batters at him, an invasion on his doorstep.

"How?" he manages.

"It's the twin thing," Luke admits, and smiles to deflect Steven's incredulity, but then he sees it safely occupied elsewhere, so he feeds him more. "Before, you know, we could feel each other all the time. Well, I mean – big things. We could feel those. And I tried...you know, being in someone else's head can be a lot. And I was...Her fear, Stevie, it was like mine. But I couldn't do what she did. I couldn't fight it. I just gave in. I looked it in the face, and once fear sees your face, it knows you. It can recognise you across a room, or in a crowd of thousands. And it follows you, closely. As closely as you'll let it, until it's just behind you, and it takes everything you've got to take one step forward, and then another, and another, always feeling the heat of it at your back, and the unbearable expectation of acknowledgement."

"Oh, Luke -"

"And when she was here, when it was both of us, the fear fed on us together, and was twice as strong. But Nellie isn't afraid anymore," he says. "And when I feel her, the warmth that finds me isn't suffocating. You know Nell. She's warm. She's like the sun, on the first nice day of spring, you know? When it sweeps over your face, and your eyelashes...explode in, in golden fireworks at the edges of your vision? That's Nellie. That's what I feel, now. She hasn't disappeared, and the parts that she left me with are some of the best ones."

Steven stares at Luke, as though the sun were a myth, and Luke's knowledge an extrapolation on the possibilities of a candle.

"That probably sounds crazy," Luke says. He buries himself in another sip of water.

"No," Steven says. "That's the first thing anyone's said to me that's made any sense since it happened."

Luke shrugs.

"You know the house is mine, now?" Steven asks, pushing it forward across the table. "How about that?"

"Well," Luke offers, "I guess that means you can do whatever you want with it."

"I want to burn it down."

"It's a lot harder to burn down a house than you'd think," Luke says. "But I don't think we have to anymore."

"What if it gets hungry, again?" Steven asks. His voice is fourteen years old, and Luke sounds like their dad.

"What we don't feed, won't flourish," he says.


	4. One Swallow Does Not Make Summer

_"Hold me one moment longer!_  
 _He taunts me with the past,_  
 _His clutch is waxing stronger;_  
 _Hold me fast, hold me fast."_

 _\- Christina Rosetti_

* * *

"Can you be at the airport tomorrow morning? Eight am?"

"Hi," he replies.

"Hi. It's important."

"Okay, well, it's the middle of the semester, Theo."

He's gone back to school, to finish his degree. But he still hasn't shown Steven any of his writing.

"I know, but like I said, it's important."

Luke sighs, and shifts his cell from his right ear to his left, scratching at his neck as if to pinch himself, but he knows he's already given in.

"I mean, yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, I guess."

"Cool," she says. "I've sent you tickets, and I'll pick you up on the other side."

"Alright, but Theo -"

It's no use protesting, because she's already hung up to forestall any paltry effort he might have made. So he slips his phone back into his bag, heavy with the words of dead poets and authors, who contemplated bigger things, and doesn't call her back to argue. There's no fighting Theo, and her pugilistic singularity. And there's no sense in fighting the curve of his mouth as it rises at the very idea of trying.

When he lands, Trish is clutching his sister at the elbow with both hands. Her smile is wide, and constant. Theo is dressed in white.

"It's ivory," she corrects. "It's not like I'm fooling anyone."

But that's not what's baffled Luke into incoherence.

"What's this? If I'd known – I mean, you didn't have to...You could have sent Shirley or Steven to pick me up."

"Shirley and Steven aren't coming," she grins, tucking her hand beneath his arm. "Just you."

"I don't -"

And Trish laughs, "We're eloping."

Theo looks at her bride, her mouth, sly and secretive.

"You're our witness."

* * *

Later, they sit together, clothing rumpled and creased into something softer.

"Do you know, this is the most fun I've had sober in years?" Theo drawls, her arm draped over the back of the love seat in her hotel room. The room is furnished in creams, and greys, and two double beds. It's not a honeymoon suite, but it is the most expensive accommodation she could get as a walk in.

There's a light, and a shadow sneaking under the bathroom door in the corner, and Theo's eyes follow it. Trish's voice sways along, waltz like, drifting through the panelled wood, and out to caress her wife. Luke grins.

"Is that a fact?" he nudges, teasing her with his tone, and an elbow in her side.

"Yeah," she says, throwing her own elbow back with much more force. "Although, to be fair, I can't say there was much fun to be had in general in the last couple years. And sobriety just made it worse. Though I don't have to tell you that."

"Sobriety has its perks, though," he suggests. "Dignity. Opportunity. Not dying."

"You save a lot of money, too," she agrees. "Which you need when you suddenly decide to build your future on an English degree. Did Steven ever give you that money?"

"Which you need when your sister calls demanding you attend her elopement."

"Hey, I told you it's covered," she laughs, then quiets, contemplating him in the yellow light of the side lamp. "I'm really glad you came."

"Me too, Theo."

A faucet turns, and water hits porcelain.

"Shirley's gonna be pissed, though," he says.

"Yeah."

He waits again, but Theo's never been one to offer any more fruit than what the wind is willing to shake from her branches. So he blows.

"Was it really that bad?" he asks.

"Seeing Nellie's ghost? Or realizing that mom tried to murder you guys? Or how about watching you choke to death on your own vomit?" she goads, not quite past the stinging gall of their night in the room. "Or do you mean hearing that Dad died and we never even got to have a good fight about it?"

"I meant," he treads carefully. Like sneaking out of bed, this house of memories creaks if you step wrong. "I meant, the drinking. Was it really that bad?"

Theo inhales, but she can't quite hold it in, it loads up with the weight of her losses so fast.

"It was getting there," she allows.

The door cracks open, golden light slicing through the muddy haze of the room.

"I'm gonna take a bath," Trish says. Her bare arm slides up, and her long fingers beckon. "If you want to join."

And she shuts the door again, the light eagerly chasing her inside.

"Not everything was bad," Luke says, catching the smile on his sister's face. He's never seen Theo smile like that, before.

"No," she says, and she turns that smile on him. With one hand, she reaches out. Her palm is dry, and warm, and she lays it flat against his cheek. Her thumb brushes across his cheekbone, and her fingertips trace the stark angles of his jaw. "I'm so happy you're here, Luke."

She drops the lightest of kisses on his brow, before she steps away to chase the golden light beyond.

* * *

Two days after he's two years clean, Luke meets someone new.

She's a TA in one of his classes, technically a couple years younger than him in age, but older in authority. She analyses text like Steven, she fights like Shirley, she pulls emotions from her heart, and her head, and her guts like Theo, and she's kind like Nell. And, he thinks, and wonders at the thought, she's exactly as brave as he never was.

"You're being romantic," she grouses. "I never lived in a haunted house."

"We all live in haunted houses," he replies, starrily.

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, alright, you just save your more unique interpretations of things for your essays."

"Unique," he chuckles, shifting his notes around, pretending there's some order to be found in his messy hand, when he'd rather find it in her. In the wave of her hair, that's been such a diligent student of her face, it knows just how to frame it. Or in the callus on her middle finger that's been clever enough to cushion her pen. Or the lines at her eyes, and her mouth that are just beginning to be confident of their expression. He focuses on his papers. "My brother would say 'crazy'."

"Your brother is a writer, too, and therefore everything he says is subject to interpretation."

"And how else can you interpret crazy?" he asks.

"Gifted," she responds, immediately. "Those have always gone hand in hand."

"Ah," he breathes.

"But," she shrugs, slipping her glasses back on, and turning to his work with a red pen. "He's your brother, so crazy could also mean 'irritating', or 'ridiculous'."

"Really?"

He isn't looking at anything else, anymore. Poor Shakespeare, another neglected ghost at the table.

"Yeah," she says. And then she's looking at him, too. "Or, 'singular,' maybe. 'Sensitive'. Or 'surprisingly, and unexpectedly charming for an English student who apparently has never encountered a thesaurus'."

"That last one is very specific."

"Luke -"

"Do you think I'd be crazy to do something horribly romantic right now?"

"Do you think you could?"

"I think I'm a better writer than you give me credit for," he says, his voice hushed in secret.

"Hey," she protests. "I'm the one who called you 'gifted'."

And he kisses her for that.

* * *

Steven doesn't really say anything, but Luke can tell he thinks it's a bad idea. Leigh, however, is overjoyed.

"Yeah, I know," Luke says, as he cradles baby Eleanor in his arms. "You'll finally get your guest room back."

"It's not just that," Leigh says, laughter in her eyes. She reaches to take her daughter back, whispering in his ear as she leans into him. "I really like her."

 _God_ , he thinks, _me too._

And that's terrifying, in its own right. But it's a good terror. He never thought he'd say that, or think that, or even entertain that possibility, but he feels his adrenaline spike, and he feels his hands clench, and his heart beat, and his stomach twist, and his mouth smile, and smile, and smile at the same time.

Leigh's delight is heightened by his gratitude, unvoiced, but so evident as to nearly become corporeal between them.

Eleanor – a big name for such a little, little girl – gurgles into wakefulness, and Leigh bends her neck and confides sweet secrets to her child. She bounces her up and down, and Luke watches them dance out of the room.

Steven doesn't dance, but he does begin to pace, slowly so as not to draw attention to the pattern of his deliberating steps.

"So, this girl – what's her name, again?"

"Carrie."

"Carrie what?"

"Sanderson," Luke soothes, all patience. "She has a first name, and a last name, and she's a real person who you've met."

"I've met your friends before, Luke."

It's not fair, but Steven squares up to Luke, too embarrassed, and too proud to take anything back.

"Technically," Luke says, through the determined smirk that settles in, "she's my teacher. Does that make it better, or worse?"

"Christ, Luke," Steven frets.

"I mean, at least one of us is responsible enough to hold down a job, right?" he prods.

"It's not cute, Luke," Steven says. "This isn't a joke. You've been doing so great – so great – and this is a risk. It's a big risk. Massive. How well do you even know this girl?"

"Carrie."

"I mean, a month ago you're talking about backpacking around Europe for a year, and buying a car, and asking Leigh about painting your room, and now suddenly, you're moving in together?"

"It's not that sudden."

"Luke," Steven chides. "This is incredibly dumb. What if you don't like her as much as you think? What if she leaves you, or you leave her? What if it all falls apart?"

"If it all falls apart, it falls apart," Luke says. "But I know that _I_ won't."

They look at each other, Luke thirsting to be believed, and Steven deeply, thoroughly wanting to. His well of trust is deep, and it takes a minute to draw water to the surface, but finally, Luke's need is sated.

"Okay," Steven says. "Okay. But I wouldn't have chosen this for you."

Luke chuffs.

"You've been wanting me to see a doctor for years," he says.

Steven shakes his head, and narrows his eyes, but he can't hold himself back entirely, and dips into Luke's infectious mirth.

"Yeah, I didn't exactly mean like this," he laughs.

* * *

Things fall apart really fast, and midterms haven't even passed before Luke finds himself inches from a panic attack.

A heavy _tap tap tap_ beats a slow staccato against the hardwood floor of their apartment, and he's afraid to look up.

"Shirley is going to kill me," he says, but it comes out gnarled and broken from his parched throat.

Carrie stands across from him, biting the inside of her cheek, and kicking the wall in measured strokes, as if to dislodge the mud of their disquiet.

 _Tap tap tap._

"Yeah, well, _I'm_ going to kill you if you don't say something nice to me," she mutters, arms crossed in a sulk, or a shield, or because they're meant to be holding something absent. "It's not like it's entirely my fault."

"No," he breathes.

She draws in a deep breath, only to release it as a decisive sigh, and drops her arms. She plants her feet, and faces him.

"Okay, look," she says, "This wasn't exactly in our plans, but the nice thing is now we get to make new plans. Together. Right?"

He nods, absently.

"Right."

"Luke?"

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, but I don't think I can – I – God, I've barely got myself together, Carrie. This isn't something I can do."

Her jaw clenches, and she looks at him with frustration.

"What are you so afraid of?" She demands.

"Everything."

"Well, me too, Luke!" she says. "So are we all. It's scary. This is fucking scary as shit, but the deed is done, and there's no going back, so either we yield to our fear, or we face it. Do you hear me?"

He almost doesn't, so she gets on her knees, and runs her hands up his thighs, staunchly parallel to the floor.

"Fight or flight, Lord Byron," she intones. "But either way, I can't do it alone."

The heat of her hands slips through the weave of his clothes, and spurs him forward, calling to him like a fire kindled in a hearth in the dead of winter. He warms his hands by hers, and swallows, pressing his forehead against her own.

"Okay," he says, thinking it's a miracle. She's a miracle, in that she doesn't just believe in him, but she _depends_ on him. "I'm not going anywhere."

A tear drops to the fabric of his pants, and she sniffs. Then she nearly giggles.

"What?" he asks.

"It's just such a tiny thing right now," she explains, "And my dad always said about small things: they're more afraid of you, than you are of it."

"Your father clearly never had children," he says. And she kisses him for it.


	5. We Wouldn't be We

_"As the falling rain_  
 _trickles among the stones_  
 _memories come bubbling out."_

 _\- Claribel Alegria_

* * *

Shirley calls him every day at two o'clock. His time.

Spring's pushing determinedly into summer, which seems reluctant to roll out of bed, and down the hills. It rubs the dust of sleep from its eyes, and squints blearily at the world. May Grey. June Gloom. But the flowers bloom, regardless.

"Have you picked up a baby carriage, yet?" she asks. Luke turns the phone to speaker, and sets it down on a white rocking chair, draped lazily in splattered, plastic sheets.

"Uh," he thinks, straining upwards. "No, not yet."

"Because I've got one down in storage," she says. Something bangs loudly in the background, suspending his reply. "Sorry," she continues, before he can. "Just cooking dinner. What're you doing?

"Painting."

Carrie's left him to do what he wants with the nursery. A project. The room with its modest ceiling, and unassuming carpet, and it's demure little window that looks onto a back alley was once nominally an office, and is now wholly unabashed by its nakedness. Luke stretches up, and reaches down, rolling a coat of butter yellow paint over its bones. His socked-feet rock over the pale floor, that cushions their weight, and murmurs its gentle excitement. A nursery. A sanctuary. A cathedral.

He comes in here to think, to dream, and to talk to Shirley.

"So do you want me to send you the carriage?"

"Well, I think Steven's planning on giving us Ellie's -"

"That's the six-month stroller," she states. "I'm talking about the two-year one we've got left from Allie."

"Oh, well, I mean," He sets the roller back in the paint tray, and surveys how far he's come.

"Luke?"

"I mean," he says, startled and yet, wholly unconcerned by his abstraction. "I don't think we'll really need it, do you?"

"Well, I don't need it," she says, like it's a competition. "Do you want it, or not?"

As a child, seniority had always been something he'd hoped to acquire, but neither his education, or his ninety seconds on Nell ever promoted him into the higher ranks of his siblings. You never outgrow being the youngest, he thinks, even though he never was. And yet, he also thinks, being bullied with generosity is kind of amazing.

"Sure, Shirl," he says, picking up his phone. "We'd love it."

Before October, Shirley hadn't been out west in years. Since March, since Carrie, she's been out every month. The first time, they'd had dinner with Steven, who proclaimed his innocence when Luke accused him of conspiring with their sister. A heavy doubt was cast on his protests when next she'd arrived prepared to go house hunting with them – that was a coincidence of timing, if ever there was one. Then, in May, she and Carrie went out for coffee.

Luke's glad that there's someone invested in Carrie. Her family is across the border, and his constant worry has become more tiresome, and less endearing. All the care and comfort has been left to his family. Theo pretends absolute confidence, and Steven, the closest, spends most of his time fretting about Eleanor (she had a cough for a week), Leigh (she's been up every night for months), and, when he can spare it, about Luke.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do for next term?" he asks.

"Attend it, I guess," Luke says. "She's not due until Christmas."

"Well, then what about winter term?"

"It's my last term. We'll manage."

"I'm only asking if you have a plan," he pushes. "You know that stress, or being overwhelmed – things like this -"

"You think a baby is overwhelming?"

"Luke -"

"Mom and Dad had five."

They pause, Steven skeptical of Luke's aim on that thrust.

"Right," he agrees, slowly. "I just want to make sure you've got a plan."

Luke nods, and Steven turns back to his computer. He's supposed to be writing, and Luke's supposed to be engrossed in an online course – part of his plan – but before his glasses can be comfortably perched, he's removed them again to examine Luke.

"I'm only saying," he says, "You're going to be busy, you're going to be stressed, you're going to be tired. I know, because I'm in the middle of it, you know? And I just want to make sure you're prepared, I want to make sure you have a handle on things, because things – other things – they can sneak up on you all of a sudden, and -"

"I get it, Steve," Luke snaps. He clenches his jaw, and digs into the text in front of him, brows shovelling into deep lines on his forehead.

"Do you?"

"Yes."

But Steven's leapt ahead, trying to outrun his paranoia.

"Do you, though? You're an English undergrad -"

"Carrie's a doctor -"

"- An English Phd – and I'm just wondering what you two are going to do? What kind of job are you going to get with that? What kind of living are you going to make?"

"Aren't you an author?"

"How are you going to put that to use? When are you going to start looking for something? Where is the money going to come from? What's it even going to go to?"

Luke just stares at him, and Steven seems to realize he's run right off a cliff. His barreling fright bleeds out of his face leaving it slack, and white with shock.

"I – I'm not..." he stutters.

"Nice, Stevie," he says. "Thanks a lot." The warped cover of his book shuts with a sepulchral thump, as he excuses himself.

"Luke, I'm just trying to protect you."

"You're not my father."

* * *

Thank God, for Shirley.

"You know your brother," she chides him, on the phone the next day. She flew out only hours before, but still, she calls. "You know he didn't mean to sound like an idiot, it's just that he _is_ one, sometimes, and couldn't help it."

"It's just that Theo said -"

"Okay, forget about what Theo said," she says. "It was probably meant to be deliberately provoking."

"No, it's just that _she_ said when Steven gave her the money, and, you know, _whoever -"_ It's still a bit of a sore spot for some people. "She said he'd initially offered it to all of you. So how come I wasn't included?"

"Luke -"

"I mean, how come it wasn't, I don't know, put aside or something, you know? It could have paid for -"

"It did," Shirley says. "It paid for a lot."

"I thought you -"

"Later."

He tries to digest that, while still stoking his outrage, but it flows like cool water over a fire.

"Oh," he thinks for a moment. "But isn't it...I thought royalties..."

"That's something you'd have to ask Steven," she says. It's phrased as a condemnation, or a disappointment, but the way her voice mounts it over pitch and tone, it soothes like forgiveness. "But Luke," she offers up again, "Life is expensive, and we're all a bit overdrawn on our accounts, in some respects. Steven's just worried."

"Yeah," he says.

"He doesn't doubt you."

Luke shakes his head. Shirley can't see it, but she can very nearly hear it.

"Luke," she calls to him. "None of us do."

The next day, she ships out the stroller.

* * *

The thing he hadn't considered though, was that sentiment doesn't require storage space.

"Why did you make her send it?" Carrie demands. Her eyes are on the road, so she doesn't see Luke shrug, but she can still hear him laugh.

"I didn't _make_ her send it," he says. "She made me take it. We can always sell it."

"And post-date our own death warrant when she realizes two years from now that it's conspicuously absent from our child's life?"

"Would she even remember?"

Carrie throws him a horrified glance.

"She lives on the other side of the country," he says, protesting his sanity. "She'll never know. We'll just carry the baby around when she visits."

"I've been carrying this little sea monkey around for four months, and I'm exhausted. You want to carry a two-year old around for days?"

He looks at her, and grabs her hand as she reaches down to shift.

"Carrie, I think you're gonna have to fight me to ever take this child out of my arms."

He's rethinking his words an hour later, when Carrie is looking at him with murder in her eyes. But it's not the scattered, desperate glint he read about in Steven's book. It's not glassy, or distracted. It's very, very certain.

He licks his lips, and takes in that gaze.

"Carrie -"

"Don't," she says, holding up her hand to forestall him. "Don't even start with me."

She throws her phone into her purse, and fumbles with her jacket. The left sleeve slips over her shoulder dutifully, but the right one is bunched, and skips away from her arm as she grabs for it.

Like coming upon a deer in a forest, Luke steps closer. He tugs the sleeve out to its length, and waits for her to come to him. With her arms safely stowed, he wraps his own around her, and she leans back into his chest, her breathless lungs matched and fed by the strength of his calm and certain inhalations.

"I'm sorry," he hums into the crown of her head, and she can't stay mad whilst being so anointed.

"You should be," she says, twisting her fingers into his. "The twin thing is definitely your side of the family."

* * *

Theo thinks – and these are her exact words – that it is fucking hilarious.

"Of course," she laughs. "Of _course!_ Only you would fuck this up so spectacularly."

She's gleeful. Trish has not at all been the mellowing influence Shirley had hoped for.

"I don't think anyone's 'fucked up'," her sister emends.

"Well, he certainly doesn't do things by halves," Steven offers.

Theo throws up a dismissive little wave.

"I meant it as a compliment," she says. "We're all fuck ups. I eloped, Luke's having kids out of wedlock, Steven wrote a fucking atrocious book -"

"Still?" Steven gripes, almost against his will.

"- And Shirley -" she hesitates, her smile slipping for a second. "Well, you've buried the bodies so well, I can't say _what_ you've done."

Shirley's shoulders drop. Trish's grip on Theo's hand eases a bit, and Luke reevaluates his estimation of her influence.

It's October again. It's a month full of anniversaries, and they've gathered in defiant cheer of most of them.

Here, Steven will say something insensitive. Leigh will wince in sympathy for everyone. Shirley will glare, and mutter behind her glass of wine, that Kevin will keep industriously full. Theo will get overwhelmed by the light, and the noise, and the fearsome warmth, and sneak outside for a cigarette. Trish won't see it. And Luke will jump at something unseen, unrealized, unformed.

And Nell will show up, too.

There'll be a cake for the party, which she'd always loved. Allie will launch into a campaign for a pony to go with her recent forays into riding lessons. Jayden will cackle at the marvelous bang as he sets off confetti, and Ellie, with these big, wise eyes that see so much, will watch with diligent fascination as the pieces settle on everyone's shoulders, like new snow.

She'll be there.

"Have you settled on names?" Shirley asks.

Carrie grins at him. They'd gone over it for weeks. She'd suggested a family name, and he'd uniformly refused that.

* * *

"Not from my side," he'd said. "Ill-fated."

"How's your novel coming?" she'd smirked at him.

"Trust me, they'll have more than enough to remember my family by," he smiled back.

She shrugged her shoulders, and peered closer at the book they'd bought to peruse specifically for this purpose.

"I don't know," she muttered, perplexed. "It just doesn't feel right, pulling it from a book. Anyone could get a name from this book!"

"That's the idea," he teased. He wrapped one hand beneath the spine, and closed it to her resentful eyes. Her lips pursed, as she studied his mouth instead, following it as it dipped to meet hers.

"Well, I want our own name," she said. "That we come up with."

"A new name?" He was skeptical of names with too many consonants, as much as he was of those with too much history.

"No," she said, corralling that wild assumption. "Just one that's new for us. I want it to hit us," she insisted. "I want to be inspired."

* * *

So, in October, when Shirley asks, they smile at each other, indulging in the end of a secret, the moment before it ceases to be.

"Sophia," Luke says, "For a little girl. And Bernard, for the boy."

Theo lets it ride upon her furrowed brow for a moment, before knocking it into the family tree with a decisive nod. Shirley cocks her head a bit, but only Steven is dumb enough to speak.

"Isn't Bernard a bit old fashioned?"

Leigh smacks him.

Theo snorts, "Isn't Eleanor?"

"Isn't Theodora?"

"My point," she exclaims.

Luke wraps one arms around Carrie's shoulders, giving her an encouraging squeeze, but she's too sensible to be offended.

"He'll be a very distinguished octogenarian one day," she vows.

Steven manages to rearrange his chagrin into a crooked smile.

"Bernie's pretty cute," he says, and Luke has to laugh.

* * *

At the end of the night, Steven asks to speak to Luke alone. He pulls him aside with so much subtle shuffling of people and objects as to be highly conspicuous, and closes them into his little study.

He flicks on a lamp, and bends over a tidy desk – nothing like Luke's own. A few boxes sit beside it, and Luke can't quite tell if they're sealed or simply shut. Opened and forgotten, or locked away. But the one that sits on top of the desk has its wings spread, and Steven reaches in to extract a book.

The volume is thin, and hard-backed.

"I've been trying to find the right time to do this," he begins, and Luke is filled with dread. "But Leigh said that worrying about it would only overshadow it all, so I'd better just do it."

"Do what?" Luke asks, the question resenting itself as it emerges.

Steven looks at him, and sighs.

"I know that the last one wasn't quite the success within the family as it was in stores," he says. "And I want to apologize for that."

 _It's about the book_ , Luke realizes, but he's only partially soothed.

"That's more a Shirley thing," he says.

This startles a laugh from Steven, who seems to come back to himself a bit. He shifts his weight to one side, and the room rights itself, swinging back onto its axis. The light is brighter, and the band between Luke's shoulders unwinds a bit.

"Shirley's already read it," Steven admits. "She actually liked it."

"Then I don't understand. What do I -?"

"I didn't really get to share the last one with you, did I? I don't know if you even read it -"

"I did."

"Oh," he pauses, gathering his contrition into something coherent and quiet. "Well, I...It made some money, and I gave it away to Theo, and Shirl, and -"

"And me," Luke says. His voice is rough. He doesn't want to calculate the cost of past shame. "Shirley told me."

But Steven is determined, and he shakes his head to ward off Luke's dismissal.

"That's the thing," he presses. "It actually made a lot of money, and in the end, you were still on your own. I cut you out. I cut you off. I used you and everything you'd told me for my own exorcism, and in the end, when I'd eaten you up, and wrung you out, I left you alone. And Luke, I'm so sorry for that."

"I know," Luke says.

"I don't want to rehash it again -"

"- We can call it even -"

"But I wanted to give you this." He thrusts the book into Luke's supplicant hands, and he's arrested by the cover.

It's the house. Again. The woods are dark, and the lights are on, and Steven's name is borne across the cover.

 _The Haunting of Hill House,_ it says. Then, _Home Again._

"They wanted to keep the title...pulpy," Steven says, awkwardly. "For continuity within the market. Or something."

Luke runs his fingers across the slick paper jacket. When he turns it to the lamp, a brief reflection flares, and the porch light seems to wink at him.

Then Steven calls him back.

"Anyway, it's yours."

"What?"

"The royalties on this one," he explains. "I can't promise it'll be a hit, but it's yours."

"Steven -"

"Open it."

The paper cracks as the spine wakes from a long sleep, and unfurls beneath his hands. There, on the first page, in the middle of a snowy field sits Steven's dedication.

 _For Nell, who had to go away.  
_

 _And for Luke, who was brave enough to stay._

* * *

 _I am going to blow this house wide open with perfect love,_ he thinks.

And then he says it.

"I am going to blow this house wide open with perfect love." The words are heavy on his tongue, clumsy and sweet, like honey, but he doesn't take them back, and with every passing moment, he means them more and more.

Carrie smiles at him, her teeth white and straight, and perfect, so perfect already, that he doesn't even feel the floor beneath him as he sweeps across to her, and lifts her into his arms. He settles into the crook of her neck, his mouth just behind her ear, and confesses his newest fear: "This is going to be the last time I have arms enough to hold all of you at once."

Her hand finds the back of his neck, and she leans back, baring her throat.

"But just think of how many more arms there will be to hold _you,"_ she says.

They stand together in the middle of the nursery. He'd given it up as his own when they'd found out that it was never meant to be a room for one person alone. Carrie had come in then. She'd had a fine, white brush, and used it to summon little animals that danced happily across the walls.

Two cribs sit on either side of the window. Two chairs, with two pillows. Two sets of towels, and a deep closet split in two. The two of them sway, content to feel their weight against each other. Her hair, always a quick learner, clings to the prickles of his beard, determined to frame his face as well. The room still smells of fresh paint, and everything is new.

A breeze filled with car horns, and bird song, and human voices drifts through the room in fits. The light which follows it bounces off the pale walls. The door is flung heedlessly, gleefully open. And Luke thinks, _I am home._

He grins, and buries himself in her hair.

 _I am home,_ he thinks. _I have been so long outside, knocking at the door, but I am through it, now. I have broken the spell of Hill House, and somehow come inside._

 _I am home,_ he thinks. _I am home._ _Now, to climb._


	6. BONUS: The World was Play

**A/N:** So, it's been really bothering me that Luke's lines as he lay dying in Steven's arms don't apparently reference ANYTHING!? In spite of the fact that they're very particular, and specific, and...I just...everything else means something, but even though the symbolism is obvious, the source isn't...? I don't think?

Correct me if I'm wrong.

In my mind, Luke goes on to become a professor of English at UCLA, and also occasionally writes children's books. The first one being, The World was Play. And this is that book. Read it to your kids, friends!

* * *

 _"Once upon a time, the world was just play, and all that we had - the five of us - was just play..."_

 _\- Luke Crain, Silence Lay Steadily_

* * *

Once upon a time, the whole world was just play,  
And all that we had were the hours in the day.

At two, there was Stevie, the stout, and the bold.  
He commanded his knights, and we did as were told.  
With swords drawn for battle, and the glory it'd bring  
Steven was steady, and Steven was king.

At three, Shirley claimed us, kind-hearted and fair.  
She'd straighten our collars. She'd comb Nellie's hair.  
Her world was a world that was safe and secure,  
Where each sadness found comfort, each sickness a cure.

Then at four, Theo came, and she came with a boom,  
She'd mark out our spots at the edge of the room.  
"Stand there," she would shout, "And when I say jump, JUMP!"  
And we'd wiggle, and jiggle, and dance, and we'd bump.

But then right at five, she'd give over the floor,  
And all gathered round for what I had in store.  
"Davy Jones is a-callin'!" I'd point to the waves,  
As our pirate ship sank to its watery grave.

When six o'clock struck, it was now Nellie's turn.  
And she'd feel that for being lost at sea we had earned  
A moment of rest, and so with great glee,  
We five would sit down at her table for tea.

Mountains of cookies, and cakes, and small pies,  
And towering jellies that reached to the sky.  
We'd have heaps of biscotti, and bundles of breads,  
Slathered with butter, and strawberry spread.

There'd be treacle, and custard, and Turkish Delight,  
And profiteroles stacked to incredible heights.  
A hundred cannolis, a thousand eclairs,  
And candy floss floating, spun lighter than air.

Scones, and croissants, and puddings, and tarts,  
And endless supplies of fresh fruit a la carte.  
A feast that was fit for princes and queens,  
Our thirst would be quenched with teas white, black, and green.

At seven o'clock when the porch light would blink,  
We'd clean up our plates, we'd finish our drinks.  
We'd set off together, for home we'd proceed.  
The rest of us followed, and Steven would lead.

By eight we were cuddled up warm in our beds,  
Mom bid us goodnight, with a kiss on our heads.  
Dad turned out the lights, and wished us sweet dreams,  
But once it was dark, things were not as they seemed.

Nine monsters stepped out from behind of our doors,  
Ten shadows unpeeled themselves from the floor.  
Eleven black hags would moan and would shriek,  
Twelve poltergeists showed up with havoc to wreak.

One goblin, two ghouls, three spiders, four trolls,  
All entered our rooms, all trembled our souls.  
Five harpies, six yetis completed their number,  
And far in the distance - the rumble of thunder.

Nellie would scream, while I'd run to hide,  
Theo would stare with her eyes open wide,  
"They're not here, they're not real," is what Shirley would say,  
While Steve turned his head, and would just look away.

But seven protects, and seven defends,  
And at seven o'clock I reached out to my friends,  
"Remember what Mommy and Dad always say,  
That monsters, like storms, must soon pass away.

"If Steven stands stalwart, and Shirley stays fair,  
I'm sure they'll persuade the ghosts back to their lairs.  
If Theo can show to them just how we feel,  
Then maybe they'll listen to all our appeals.

"If Nellie befriends them, and offers them space,  
Perhaps we'll agree we can all share the place.  
At which point will I, having learned to be brave,  
Will greet all the ghosts with a big friendly wave.

And just like we've learned from our Mommy and Dad,  
Not all of the ghosts are mean, scary, or bad.  
And something spectacular that we will find,  
Is if we are honest, and loyal, and kind,

There are fiends that are friendly, and spectres supreme  
And the dark isn't really as dark as it seems."  
And once we've decided to take hold of our fate,  
The sun will come up as the clock strikes on eight.

Nine monsters, ten shadows, eleven black hags,  
Will start up a game of tentacle tag!  
Twelve poltergeists, a goblin, and all of the others  
Will join in the fun with my sisters, and brother.

And when we have learned how to tackle our fear,  
How much brighter then, will the future appear!  
We'll use every minute, all hours of each day,  
To fill up the whole world with the sounds of our play.

* * *

 **I'd like to thank my lovely reviewers who I haven't been able to respond to directly:**

Sophia! What a perfect, and serendipitous name. I'm so happy you enjoyed it, and I'm so happy it could speak directly to you in such a fun way. I always love seeing my name in stories, and I'm glad you could have that experience here. Just super touched you enjoyed it enough to say so 3

And to my other anonymous reviewer, thank you, thank you! To say it feels like another episode is massively gratifying, and so wonderful to hear. I wanted that world to continue so badly, I'm happy I could do that to some extent for you, and keeping all the voices coherent and true at the same time. Thank you for enjoying it!


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